EXHIBITION STATEMENT
The power of one form of art over another fascinates me. Many art forms — visual arts, literary arts, music — carry the influence of those that came before and it’s always exciting for me to discover the little pieces of one artist informing another.
For this exhibition, I invited a few visual artists and poets with whom I have worked in the hopes that their art would inspire one another to create. The artists and poets were given the opportunity to submit existing art and poetry. The art was sent to poets and poetry sent to the artists who were give the opportunity to select poems or pieces of art that spoke to them from the submitted work. Participants were then asked to create a new piece of art—be it a visual art piece or poem—based on the original inspiration. All of the artists and poets that are participating in Art & Words rely heavily on visuals and I knew that pairing their art form with another would be successful. I wasn’t disappointed. Art & Words holds something for everyone in both visual and written forms.
I wish to personally thank the those that came together to make Art & Words one of my favorite exhibitions, and to those artists who brought my own poetry to life and to another level. I have been told by many artists and poets that they were challenged and that the project was a great creative reward. Please view the exhibition and spend some time looking deep into both the poetry and artwork to see the connections made between the artists and poets. Hopefully you too will discover your own connections.
Robert P. Langdon, Curator
April 2019
© Cheryl Lickona “Final Goddess” Digital collage 15.25” x 9.75”
inspired the poem "Final Goddess" by Michelle DeCicco
FINAL GODDESS
Every living organism has a soul, and a purpose in the circle of life.
from the smallest forest, to the deepest jungle she exists, newly created by the ancient ones, she grows from the ferns and earth a final chance for us humans,
to replenish and care
she thrives from hope, for change balance, for giving and receiving from seed to sapling, she, you, and i won’t survive without a greener Earth.
— © Michelle DeCicco
© Cheryl Lickona “Eva's Angel” Digital collage 15.25” x 9.75”
inspired the poem "Eva's Angel" by Michelle DeCicco
EVA'S ANGEL
Shhhhh... night merges with day what is fantasy, might be true his stone to her skin converge with reality Shhhh... lucid dreams revolt reality crumbles as we embrace it precious face notices touch hardens the soul Shhh... confuse the controlling dreamer twisted understandings cherub sight deceives others secrets of the present converge Shh... day breaks the night future to past souls she feels all with vanishing eyes secrets yearning to control secrets aching
— © Michelle DeCicco
© Theresa Landi Daniel “Fruehling (Little Early Thing)” Handmade paper and mixed media 6.5” x 6”
Inspired by the poem "Fruehling" by Theresa Landi Daniel
FRUEHLING (LITTLE EARLY SPRING)
First clue, color cue, watery blue. Greying sky; sprouts shy. Spatter-drops for pale buds Robin hops on soft mud. Worm squirm; worm gone. Showers off and on.
Amber flaking dust, browning, turns to rust that must but just cannot repel the rain. Sun low
Afterglow
Warming dark….
Day breaks. First spark starts slow, sparse and quiet.
Then green bursts to yellow, and violet riot.
— © Theresa Landi Daniel
© Ana C. H. Silva
“Timepiece”
Watercolor, paper, eye accent, ballpoint, pencil on panel
8” x 10”
inspired by the poem "An Antique" by Michelle DeCicco
AN ANTIQUE
my thoughts travel to you even in my dreams black and silver numbered and lettered high and elegant a shell of an antique but complete without a scratch your voice a delightful echo from the past reminds me of the greats that spent hours with you rhythmically touching your parts
— © Michelle DeCicco
© Andrea Geller
“Dent”
Oil on canvas
8” x 8”
inspired by the poem "Dent" by Ana Silva
DENT
The only thing of mine in that house was the dent. I threw a green stone egg at my bedroom wall. The egg made an oval in the sheetrock. I watched shadows dip into its curve at night.
I threw a green stone egg at my bedroom wall. I was allowed to have an egg collection. I watched shadows dip into its curve at night. Wood, agate, onyx, volcanic glass, even a geode.
I was allowed to have an egg collection. The beauty that something inside will someday come out. Wood, agate, onyx, volcanic glass, even a geode. Some nights I put a pillow on the floor and watched the moon.
The beauty that something inside will someday come out. I watched shadows dip into its curve at night. Some nights I put a pillow on the floor and watched the moon. The only thing of mine in that house was the dent.
— © Ana C. H. Silva
© Joanne Pagano Weber
“Cycles of Change”
Acrylic on canvas
16” x 12”
inspired by the poem "Cycles of Change" by Debra Offner-Friedkin
CYCLES OF CHANGE
We rallied round an evening barbecue like a prehistoric tribe partaking of the hunt spoils; post Fourth of July, the dog on his outdoor run barked at errant firecrackers.
We splintered into subgroups aware that relatives cannot be chosen; smoldering coal smoke hastened the darkness so we lifted our voices to push back the night.
Sitting in webbed chairs we lit citronella candles and raised beer bottles to the stars; clouds above our heads danced across the full moon the wind below dispersed our conversations capriciously.
Funny how one has no sensation of the movement of time slipping forward; that moonlit night I saw my generation infiltrating my parents reign, while my children ripened.
— © Debra Friedkin
© jd weiss
“remembering the way home”
Medium format film archival pigment print on panel
18” x 18”
inspired by the poem "Marie" by Robert Langdon
MARIE
I helped someone die today. Held Marie’s tired and bruised hand and talked her through letting go. I was honest — as I know she would want me to be — and relayed the final truth without a coat of sugar.
The truth that this time she wasn’t going to bounce back. That they wanted to cut her open again and clean the guts of this stubborn infection. That the tubes had to come out and she would forever breathe through a hole dug in her throat.
The truth that her cherished independence would be filched and she would be under someone’s care in a home of weakness, popsicle stick crafts and wafts of urine. With tears slipping down my face and falling onto her brittle hand I offered the dignity of choice and asked if this is what she wanted.
She looked at me through her cataract milky eyes. I knew she understood but she couldn’t respond because of the tubes feeding her air like a decorative aquarium chest. But Marie’s treasure was spent.
She moved her head from side to side like a pendulum. “No” she mouthed closing her eyes with final thoughts racing through her healthy mind She didn’t want this new quality of life. She didn’t want this fight.
She looked up at me while they injected morphine into the IV bag. The gaze lifted as her eyes rolled into her head like a junkie. They pulled the breathing tube from her mouth — unrolled like a tape measure — and switched off all of the machines except for one that monitored her beat.
Gurgles rose from her throat sounding like a child pushing air through a straw into a glass of milk. I held her hand tighter as she faded deeper into the task of giving in. “You will always be with me,” I repeated. “Tap me on the shoulder to let me know when you visit.”
She gazed at the ceiling mouthing words that only the dead could hear. She saw them reaching out to her—Ted, Manny, Duckie — and grasped their hands as they escorted her into death. One final blip on the screen and she left without dramatics. She simply closed her eyes and stopped living.
Later that evening the stress of the past month released like a slow leak in a birthday balloon. I sunk into the mattress like it were a cloud and dreamt of a younger Marie. Smiling like how I wanted to remember her. I felt a tap on the shoulder and smiled knowing it was her letting me know she was there. Just as I had asked.
— © Robert P. Langdon
© Diane Christi
“Contemplation”
Pastel
16” x 12”
inspired by the poem "Monday" by Robert Langdon
MONDAY
Welcome the close of day with vodka and bitter tonic. Twist of lime. Leave the corporate world to sunlight rays as grooves of jelly jar pints circle my lips like hula-hoops.
Pool players knee deep in competition capture my attention. Stripes and solids bullet from side to side dueling on velvet green. Their boastful collisions blend with the rhythm trickling from the jukebox.
Stevie Nicks, the white winged dove, sings of addiction. Her liquored breath strips me of my three pieced mask and I ease into repose.
Worries of the day are easily forgotten. Clients snuggle down. Voice mail messages mount resigned to 9 to 5. Forgotten until alarm clock laughs 6 a.m.
Routine wraps me in Tuesday’s skin.
— © Robert P. Langdon
© Leah Brown Klein
“It's Complicated”
Pastel pencil
17” x 21”
inspired the poem "it's complicated" by gwynneth green
it's complicated
is it really so rude
to choose
not to use
chopsticks
a fork
a spoon
work so much better
even fingers
in a pinch
who’s idea
was it to eat with sticks
why spend time
fighting with the food
when satisfying an appetite
is the point of feasting
don’t complicate
the meal
with snow peas slipping through
and rice
that doesn’t adhere to
what would be
a whittled piece of wood
is this a cultural test
for those who didn’t grow up
with wands or rods
consuming food
without a place setting
you know
the ones who say
no elbows on the table
you’re not in a horses’ stable
really
who eats in a stable besides the animals
there should be no shame
in eating your own way
who has the final say
as to etiquette
are you done
spoke your piece
please now
pick up the sticks
let’s eat
— © gwynneth green
© Josh Dorman
“Interior: Hedgehog Manager”
Mixed media collage on panel
30” x 24”
inspired the poem :The Collage Artist" by Robert Langdon
THE COLLAGE ARTIST
I’m pulling it together.
Combining the pieces in an arranged
marriage of mammals and birds.
Acrylic and cut pieces scrapped
from outdated medical texts, stained
auto guides and books of jokes that
stopped being funny.
Scissor snipped and clipped
seals and snails and diving swallows —
lost in a jumble of Indian ink and Library Paste
— arrange themselves into a dance.
My hands are lost in the cut and stroke.
The lines blur as I birth
a new collage.
— © Robert Langdon
© Ellen Martin
“Abandoned #185 (October 19, 2016)”
Ipod Touch digital photograph
20” x 15”
inspired the poem ransacked by gwynneth green
ransacked
rags
all that was left
were rags
vandalized
body parts
spun
twisted
bent and broken
violated
spoiling
a space
disruptive
disturbing
terrorized
shocking
the mind
into a warfare game
who
why
will they return
does one stay
with a gun
ready to shoot off toes
does one
flea
for there’s nothing worth keeping
don’t hesitate
don’t spend endless hour contemplating
file a claim
lock the door
don’t look back
leave
— © gwynneth green
© Kathleen MacKenzie
“Facing the Wind”
Acrylic on panel
12” x 12”
Inspired by the poem I Remember by Kathleen MacKenzie
I REMEMBER
I remember a Sunday
winter in the Bronx
the barren streets
enveloped by a bitter cold sky,
a grey blanket covering
our apartment buildings
I remember the wind
cutting through the alleyways
whipping across the elevated train tracks
lifting falling swirling passing McArdle’s bar
issuing a drunken howl
before turning the corner
The barbershop pole
whirling red white and blue
the sweetshop awning
flapping fiercely
Joe’s shoe repair sign
creaking back and forth
I also remember
on that Sunday afternoon
snapping Liz’s picture
as she stood in closeup
smiling
facing the wind
— © Kathleen MacKenzie
© Kathleen MacKenzie
“Zeus”
Acrylic on panel
12” x 16”
Inspired by the poem Zeus by Kathleen MacKenzie
ZEUS
He wore his
indanthrene tie
knotted at the neck
and strung under
a brilliant
white shirt collar
the longer part thrown
fashionably over
his left shoulder
decorating a
tailored dark grey
suit of silk.
Around his
fingers and thumb
he held a tightly wound
clothe of red.
He strode from the courthouse
quite confident,
the upturned corners
of his mouth
revealing his pleasure
with the verdict.
This god of seduction
a figure of bearing and danger
Zeus rose again.
— © Kathleen MacKenzie
© Debra Friedkin
“The Big Bang”
Mixed media collage
13.75” x 11.75”
inspired the poem "The Big Bang" by Barbara Hall
THE BIG BANG
I see the message of the disaster humanity fears
A nuclear bomb rocketing towards its target on man’s time
Like the Doppler effect, earth anticipates its arrival
her atoms and molecules quiver in portending disintegration
But that is not the only Big Bang
Scientists theorize our origins:
The Birth of the Universe - a Big Explosion…
How can that be? Something from nothing?
Where is the logic? Wnho lit the fuse?
How can matter survive an explosion of nothing?
Fifty years ago, American feet kicked moon dust
Some challenged that it was staged
I’m sure Houston Control did not…
The astronauts wanted to see the dark side of the moon
They reported phantom angels, space ships and orbs
What they really saw, heard and experienced
covered up to keep us safe, the silence of nondisclosure
The wonder and mystery of it all lives on,
Have we been here or there before?
Why so intent to go to the moon? now Mars?
Some say Mars is our home, we are Martians…
Opportunity, MER-B and Spirit MER-A explored Mars,
With the death of MER-B after an unexpected longevity:
“My battery is low and it is getting dark:”
Curiosity takes their place
All report possible evidence of water and nuclear explosions on Mars
Is Earth the planet of the Great Escape?
And Mars the hope of return?
We now have moon dust on our feet
Star bursts, supernovas, do they make the Milky Way?
Human imagination is too confined to comprehend it all
The unanswered question lives: Does history repeat itself?
— © Barbara Hall
© Debra Friedkin
“Tornado”
Mixed media collage
5” x 7”
inspired by the poem "is it too late" by gwynneth green
is it too late
throw me line
i’ve fallen once more
the rabbit hole
it’s deeper than ever
lined with
barbs and thorns
reopening wounds
that had been stitched
but never totally healed
oozing memories
that i thought
had been replaced
is it too late
to avoided
the pain
is it too late
to call for help
is it too late
to mend these scars
is it too late
to be saved
throw me line
— © gwynneth green
© Marjorie Magid
“Dancing In the Green”
Oil on canvas
20” x 30”
inspired the poem "town green" by gwynneth green
town green
as a bird in flight
light on her bared feet
her dance
her expression
no music
the crowd quiets
no sound
leaps
dips
spins
and twirls
mesmerizing
the unexpected spectators
in a trance
unleashing her soul
into a beautiful performance
of unrehearsed steps
captivating the audience
they with bated breaths
fearing
her triple whirl
might end in a fall
the grand finale
a pirouette and bow
leaving all speechless
and in awe
now
continue on
pass the town green
— © gwynneth green
© Ellen Martin
“Abandoned #98 Plywood and Pleats (10-10-2015)”
Ipod Touch digital photograph
28” x 22”
inspired new poems by Barbara Hall and Allen Shadow
ABANDONED #98 — PLYWOOD AND PLEATS
I saw that shanty, too
Abandoned #98
How many more have been abandoned?
Man tired of Mother Nature’s persistent claim for her possessions….
Not one, but two, counting the doors at #98
I saw that shanty driving to Jacksonville
that crumbling shanty caught my eye
I stopped. I snapped a picture. I wondered….
Who once lived there?
Where did they go?
Why did they leave?
Who owns it now?
Why doesn’t someone fix it?
Door #1
why the plywood?
What happened inside?
Door #2
Someone loved it, the evidence remains:
Pleated curtains, sewn and hung,
Ceiling to floor, colors undecipherable,
fabric faded by the sun….
I pictured in my mind…
Two hard working families…
Little Mikey in his baseball cap
Ready to play across the street
hit a home run straight through the window…
Dad with his hammer, blocked the rain….
Mikey’s rear end hurt with pain
Next door, little Sarah, pinafore circles her calico dress,
hanky in her pocket with her nickel for the offering plate
Sarah’s mother stirs Sunday beef stew
Pa, in his best suit, ties his derby shoe laces
But where did they go?
Did Florence move in to reclaim their home?
Money too scarce to mend missing shingles,
molded walls, mud packed floors
Abandoned when the river rose, abandoned hope
Mother Nature struck again, and again and again
Florida’s finger sticking out can host more than one in a year
Florence’s sister Katrina swerved to Louisiana to sing the blues
Brother Harvey chose Houston, worse than Katrina
Sent people packing with displacement and flooding
So where do they go, the displaced and hungry?
How do they survive this story unending
Mother Nature’s eternal determination, rebirths her children
of wind and water, earth and fire,
The constant threat to mankind’s desires….
— © Barbara Hall
Ghost Plaza
Blanked and shadowed
once curtained and live
the cratered parking lot
the power lines to nowhere
the mismatched plywood for eyes
yet can see, smell the luxe drapes
dripping sad theater where once
little ladies with purses sat for hours
beneath bulbous dryers, unaware
of the traffic and teen terrors beyond
Are there still stray coins perhaps
amid the slaughtered floor tiles
ones that might tell tales of transactions
good and bad and heated, when there
was once the throbbing of life?
— © Allen Shadow
Al Desetta
“Loneliness is a Lady”
Oil on canvas
36” x 48”
inspired by the poem "Loneliness Is a Lady" by Barbara Hall
LONELINESS IS A LADY
Loneliness is a lady all dressed up in white
her gown free, flowing, sheer pearl-essence in the light
She spends her day in a lazy way,
ensconced in her parlor, painted grey and white
She sips peach cider by herself, never invites me in
even when I stop by to see her, she cowers behind the trees
I ask her to join me but she thinks I’m a tease
I bring her lemonade, she doesn’t like the sugar
I bring her strawberries, they slip away
and drop red stains on her flowery gown
I bring her songs to sing
she whispers my melodies to the wind
She thinks I’m funny, but full of original sin
She loves to walk along the beach
sand her summer snow
dunes rise like cliffs, tower above her head;
her feet sink into shoals, her winter drifts of snow
her favorite pets are creatures of the night
white barn owls that whooo hoot ‘til dawn
leopards’ black spots on ginger, scarce as summer snow
faint creatures rule her moods
her moonlight walks beyond the edge of Time
I cry for her to shed her sham
to change her dress to red
I want for her to dance with me
and leave haunted memories behind
— © Barbara Hall
© Linda Lynton
“August Moon I-III”
Oil on linen
8” x 8”
Inspired by the poem "Full Moon In August" by Ellen McKay
FULL MOON IN AUGUST
The forest floor shines like tarnished silver.
Plum Moon the Shawnee call it.
Rose orb of the open fruit
in the gloss of night, purple-dark.
I bathe in this light, soft as water,
In its cool gleam I soften,
my jagged edges polished smooth,
what was in shadow now revealed,
my gaze now lucid, clear.
Cross-hatched pen and ink,
a jeweler’s tool carved this shimmer
on boulder and stone, pebble and bark,
pale luster on the lobed leaves of oaks
and the silver birch in its own element, moonlight.
Green Corn Moon, Barley Moon,
white kernel swathed in corn silk,
at first sight you took me by surprise—
like coming upon a wild creature in the wood,
sitting there, looking at me.
The moon is a snowy owl
in the upper limbs of the tallest fir,
she floats from the branch, a blossom hovering—
instant of pure white,
oblique light, feathered light.
Kindred moon, my rhythm falls in
with your ebb and flow, I sway,
easy as sleeping breath,
bathed in your milk, opalescent,
fragrance of forest musk
from dusk to dawn.
— © Ellen McKay
© Loel Barr
“Bottom of the World”
Photography
13.5” x 10.5”
inspired the poem "Bottom of the World" by Robert Langdon
BOTTOM OF THE WORLD
Cancer — that little cunt — stole his mojo.
Dug its claws into his abdomen
and left a piece of him right there on a stainless
steel tray at Hackensack University Medical Center.
Washed its hands and left him dry.
Dry of morning wood
of messy tissues crumpled beside the bed
of the possibilities of children
It left him in a paradise with a sunset of fire
that no longer blazed and with a fog that would never
lift. It abandoned him on the other side of the world.
Left him. Touching
bottom.
— © Robert Langdon
© Loel Barr
“In Search of Pomegranate Molasses”
Digital drawing
10” x 8.25” / 14” x 11”
Inspired by the poem "In Search of Pomegranate Molasses" by Anique Taylor
© Elaine Ralston
“Pomegranate”
Pastel
12” x 16”
Inspired by the poem "In Search of Pomegranate Molasses" by Anique Taylor
IN SEARCH OF POMEGRANATE MOLASSES
Fog hangs in torn sheets from the sky. The river
calls in a language I cannot understand,
On our way to the darkest time of the year,
every day we lose three minutes of light,
each inside our separate skin.
The sound of rain. Sometimes I think
the past will crush me. Still the jittery feeling
rises up again. I will escape later. Some
fold laundry and make lists. Others wait
in line for pomegranate molasses. Some
raise hands trying to capture the wingbeat
of a prayer — as young men explode
children’s limbs like toys. In the invisible grid
of each cell, how can it ever be the same
again? The forgotten bones of childhood,
was there something we could have changed?
Something we missed? I know it needs
a voice, but the loop replays. I hit the button
at the end of the cycle to restart this too.
We try to define the edges, but sun’s light
crowds out every star. How will we love,
even what is upside down, has layers or opens up —
the unmendable beauty of what is speckled,
has clawed feet or makes us weep
— © Anique Taylor
© jd weiss
“take me out to the sea”
Medium format film / archival pigment print on panel
20” x 20”
Inspired by the poem "I Can’t Stop Dreaming" by Anonymous
I CAN'T STOP DREAMING
I can’t stop dreaming.
I’m at the sea.
Dreaming for ever, but still not believing.
I want the waves to come on in.
On me, over me, take me out to the sea.
Floating
letting go of the weight that drowns.
Floating
breaking the chains that bound.
I woke up dreaming.
And now I know.
Dreaming’s the state that life does unfold.
I want the waves to come on in.
On me, over me, ocean waves are me.
— Anonymous
© Prudence See
“Hobby Horse”
Crayon, gouache and watercolor on scratchboard print with appropriate types piece inserted
13” x 16”
© Prudence See
“Twinkle Twinkle”
Crayon, gouache and watercolor on scratchboard print with appropriate types piece inserted
13” x 16”
© Will Nixon
Photography
7.5” x 9.5” / 12” x 14”
inspired the poems:
CARDIAC ARREST
due in courtship holy bail bonds of matrimony a wife sentence
— © Sari Grandstaff
THE HANDCUFFS
After Will Nixon
I wanted to hide in the closet and light a smoke.
I wanted to defy Father Time and vanish
in the long shadow of the big clock.
I wanted to jump from the roof to safety
in the arms of my ex-lover Cherise.
I wanted to confess at the hem of a bewildered nun.
I wanted to be mocked by giggling girls
sipping martinis at the mirrored bar.
I wanted to be led away in handcuffs into the swirling lights.
— © Bruce Weber
© Ann Morris
“Rain”
Mixed media collage
10” x 10” / 12.5” x 12.5”
Inspired by the poem "Rain" by Will Nixon
RAIN
Why does rain in the movies always mean sadness?
Why does rain imply sex in the novels of Yukio Mishima
as my boarding school English teacher once informed us?
Why does the rain sound like stampeding baby feet
on my cottage roof as I sit down to write morning pages?
Why do I not have the words for rain the way Eskimos
do for snow: do we not have thirty-two varieties of sadness?
I've seen the rain thin into harp strings. I've seen it thicken
with the vengeance of bullets that dissolve into puddles.
No one should decide what the rain means in the novels
of Yukio Mishima, but the lovers themselves, plotting
their lives under an umbrella as loud as a typewriter
clackety-clacketying with the downpour of news.
Whenever they chose, they can drink from the sky.
— © Will Nixon
© Robert P Langdon
“Wigs”
Photography
8.5” x 11.5” / 11” x 14”
inspired the poem "oh tina" by gwynneth green
OH TINA
tina lived here
on the 6th floor
just high enough off the street
that the fumes
didn’t seep through
the window cracks
but the noise on the street
kept her from sleep many nights
she spent those dark hours
combing her wigs
for having lost her hair
in a cruel battle
to save her life
wigs
her trophies
her crowns
her wigs gave
new meaning to life
she could change attitude
with length color and style
she could disguise
so not to be recognized
tresses of orange
when she sang at clubs
blond locks
for a latte at bucks
chic short and blunt
when out to lunch
selecting sleek black
for boudoir bedfellows
oh tina
oh tina
the boys would sing
oh tina
oh tina
with her many wigs
each day expressing
the woman
she wanted you to see
oh tina
oh tina
we love whatever personality you bring
— © gwynneth green
© jd weiss
“outside my window on a winter day”
Medium format film /archival pigment print on panel 18" x 18"
Inspired by the poem "Glittering" by Michelle DeCicco
GLITTERING
gazing out my window
one of two
faces the sun’s rising
frozen glitter
fluttering through the air
sparkly iridescence
each tiny glitter
glittering
encapsulating rainbow
fairy folk
in winter’s trees
creating a glittering
from fanciful wings
— © Michelle DeCicco
© Josepha Gutelius
“The Hours on Saturday”
Mixed media on canvas
30” x 30”
Inspired by the poem "The Hours on Saturday" by Josepha Gutelius
THE HOURS ON SATURDAY
Saturday morning. Ten-thirty. The slow sway of cattails. I was looking out at the pond, worried about the blue heron that was stealing the carp. I’m all ears, she tells me. Or she would have, if I had called her. Sometimes I didn’t want to hear my voice, part steely interrogator, part like a night crab jerks around and she can’t get a word in. Eleven o’clock. The day is big if one bloodied shirt can interrupt the radio. Shirt = laundry, you know where that’s headed. I did a load of clothes before I remembered
I wanted to call her. I sat with my dogs’ crowded yelps, the phone in my hand. It’s good, I’ll tell her, all good. No I’ll call her after. —Always something, isn’t there? — my entire lifetime is watered with faltering. I called another friend first and talked too long. How my life has shrunk. I was so tired of being tied to the phone. One-thirty. Fierce sweeps of rain. Tires going what-what. No, I didn’t call her. The wind plucked the grocery list from my hand. —Yup, I was out shopping. — Tongue hanging out of a worn-out sneaker. Oh, the things we remember. And I was feeling awfully beat when I got home, awful, like I’d spent the last three hours fighting off mobs. Now I really must call her, not later. Now.
Three-thirty. Last dregs of mint leaves at the bottom of my glass: Why this hint of sad endings? I was remembering some funny things she told me. Like, her great-great-great was a bespectacled cloud. Her great-great was a dot in the center of soup. Her father was a fringe of a beard history licked off. Her raven mother.... More memories coming round the back...
Four o’clock. Still haven’t called her. An earthquake arrives in the mail, loopy scrawls slipknot into sudden fissures: World, what did you announce? We all share the same numbers, for instance everyone knows what one means, she wrote. I am one, you are one, one world, she wrote. I almost was ready to pick up the phone. My tongue slapping from rut to rut. So many things to rock my world. Hello? Hello? How you holding up, I would have asked her.
— For Charlotte
Saturday, 4 p.m. CBS News: An elderly woman identified as Charlotte Hahn Arner, a Holocaust survivor, was killed tragically in a fire that broke out in her home this afternoon.
— © Josepha Gutelius
© Josepha Gutelius
"Transformers"
Mixed media on canvas
16” x 20”
Inspired the poem "Transformer" by Monica T. Fiorentini
TRANSFORMER
Upon further inspection
you’re not so prim in blue
rather your duchess slant sits
stacking quips to spew
middle finger cocks
behind the ear
prepped to pop
the jester doth dare
stonewall Sweetie’s catwalk.
— © Monica T. Fiorentini
© Josepha Gutelius
“Crossing the Tappan Zee”
Mixed media on canvas
24” x 16”
Inspired by the poem "Writing While Driving Across the Tappan Zee Bridge" by Anique Taylor
© Josepha Gutelius
“Crossing the Tapan Zee II”
Ink on canvas
12” x 16”
Inspired by the poem "Writing While Driving Across the Tappan Zee Bridge" by Anique Taylor
WRITING WHILE DRIVING ACROSS THE TAPPAN ZEE BRIDGE
A fog so dense, I drive ahead
enclosed in a separate world. A member
of the generation raised ignored and unseen, I
swallow each day like a fisherman afraid of the ocean.
The first thing I learned in college after
the in loco parentis lecture on the necessity
of virginity, was how to roll a joint. I paced corn
fields reciting poems to communities of stars, as night
sky engulfed the land. The first time I left, I hitchhiked into
dawn, sawdust puppets tucked into cloth laundry bag on one shoulder,
a broken guitar on the other. Out Route 68, I boomeranged back to suburban
cocktail parties, adults embarrassed by love, scotch & cigarettes embedded in their cells.
Across the Tappan Zee, where slabs of concrete had
crashed into the river leaving openings in pavement
large enough to see down into the Hudson. I examine
my wrinkled face in the mirror. A ghost of myself ringed
with colored mists, the clown in me gives me courage.
Some pray to the crescent
moon. Lucky ones drive ahead as if
there’s nothing to fear. Some scribble on paper
scraps on the steering wheel, to capture whatever we can.
We balance, one legged
toppling un-metered through dreams
to risk the unknown before the absorption
of all palpable light. We sing and we sing wanting
only to touch the moving silhouette before it disappears
— © Anique Taylor
© Martha Hill
“Solitude”
Oil, pastel and pencil
9” x 9”
Inspired the poems:
IN SOLITUDE
a mood
of colors that don’t clash
ripples of differences
diffuse
drastically altering
one’s disposition
succumb
to still
alleviate
waves of anxiety
in simple steps
of
conscious breath
awakening
to calm
aware of
one’s space
cognizant of
cosmic unity
mindful of
one’s heath
reflecting on
knowledge
your sanctuary
your domain
obtainable
in
solitude
a mood
of colors that don’t clash
noises that combine
into a quieted symphonic sound
relaxing one’s
body and mind
opening
one’s spiritual side
— © gwynneth green
SOLITUDE
I discovered a cathedral in Nature’s back yard
where apple trees and Japanese maples, like spires, reach skyward
Their leaves flutter and blur into green at wind’s command,
her voice, a soft echo, drifts across colossal blue hosta
her whispers plant seeds of wisdom, deep in the earth
She paints yarrow with a brush of silver and yellow
drops hesitant dots and white stars on lily of the valley
she borrows Time from the universe
as the small pond reflects images of clouds, a contrail cross
the coo of mourning doves joins the chickadees’ chorus
raindrops wash the earth and star dust away
shadows in the pond hint of a mystical presence
Peace proliferates as I breathe in the spirits of solitude…
— © Barbara Hall
© Elaine Ralston
“Willow, Early Spring”
Pastel
9” x 11”
Inspired by the poem Willow, Early Spring by Ellen McKay
© Ellen McKay
“Willow, Early Spring”
Acrylic on canvas
15” x 15”
Inspired by the poem Willow, Early Spring by Ellen McKay
WILLOW, EARLY SPRING
Specks of red bole clay show through the silver leaf, the antique moulding, of simple grace, frames a single willow painted in Pointillist detail. At the edge of Spring, the bright green-yellow whips rain down as a fountain, pale saffron, the new leaf buds— the first color to appear in March in fields still winter-grey. The willow grows by a pure cobalt blue river, running calm and cold. An old tree, the trunk is broad and gnarled, deeply rooted. Across the river, a distant shore, barely visible, veiled in morning mist. Brush points of white: the water glimmers. How I long to put down roots to the depths, feel myself solid, fed by underground streams, rain and sun and even snow, change my colors with the seasons, my crown ever open to the sky, live long by the blue river with wild grasses fragrant at my feet!
— © Ellen McKay
© Ellen mcKay
Tempera on paper
24” x 32”
Inspired the poem 'Marshland" by Monica T Fiorentini
MARSHLAND
Sugary palette hops into the heart
and coats it with Easter magic
Bouncing down the stairwell
in white nightie
butterflies in my belly
Eggs hidden behind couch cushions
and on window sills
Believing there was a bunny
that could open cupboards and hold
a basket in his paw.
Hello Kitty treats, black jelly beans
wrapped in lemony cellophane
nestled on minty green grass.
— © Monica T. Fiorentini